


Party in the Playroom

by glacis



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke, Mace, Obi Wan (times two), Qui Gon (times two), Gabrielle, Scotty, Xanatos, Xena, Darth Maul, Amidala, a couple chicks hanging out on the sidelines, and an Orion ambassador to be named later get together in the basement and PAR-TAY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party in the Playroom

Party in the Playroom (AKA the Parenthetical Party, for an overabundance of Parentheses), by Glacis. Rated NC17S for silly, gratuitous smut of a crossover kind in every permutation possible with most bipeds (m/m, f/f, m/f, masturbation, pleasurable owies of a biologically-induced sort). A little something to offend everyone.

This is the fourth story in the Party Trilogy, which makes as much sense as anything in this series, if one can call it a series. No copyright infringement intended, of course, in any of the universes herein manipulated. Copyright holders flinch in utter disgust at this "series" if any have the sincere misfortune to read it.

This one's all M's fault. She reminded me that it's fun to play with dolls ... then gave me the accouterments necessary to put it all together. From the bottom of my perverted little heart, thank you, my friend.

Without further mush, onto the smut.

The cast:

_From Xena_ : Xena (evil incarnation, since Standard Xena looks like she needs to be force fed Twinkies until she's no longer starved to the point of emaciation). Kick-ass warrior woman of bastardized versions of everything from Greek mythology to Indian folklore in every time period from ancient to 1999.

Gabrielle (Empress version, because once you lose the wacky dress and silly headdress, the hair is great and the shoes are better). Xena's sidekick (currently feeling up Qui Gon).

Which leads us to :

_From Star Wars : The Phantom Menace_ : Qui Gon Jinn. Being masterful. In full pirate garb (with appropriate anatomically correct additions).

Obi Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor edition, since cute as Alec Guinness is, he wouldn't have the stamina to keep up). In equally full pirate gear, but with a slightly less dominant anatomy, and jewelry.

In a fit of double vision, also starring _Qui Gon Jinn_ and _Obi Wan Kenobi_ in Original Costuming (carefully placed on the top floor of the playroom so as to not accidentally encounter themselves in Pirate Mode, which might cause a temporal anomaly, which might bring Janeway into the mix, the idea of which, I don't know about you, but frightens the hell out of me).

Darth Maul, with an anatomy the likes of which the world will never see. (damn)

Mace Windu (the tallest of the bunch, of course) with proportional anatomy (and the second best skin tone match next to Maul).

Queen Amidala (the version wearing the cool dress that looks like it has either glow-lamps or yellow eyeballs all around the hem). (Yes, her dress is important - with a face like that, the dress is the only reason to buy the damned thing!)

Xanatos (okay, he's actually Skater Ken - who is AMAZINGLY flexible - but hey, in Xena's leathers with his hair washed up and hacked off he looks a helluva lot like the YA novels depict him. Sans marking, and with the exception of the position of his left hand, of course, which could explain the manic expression on his pretty-boy face).

And on the other side of the Padawan coin, _from Star Wars : The Original Movie_, (since the subtitle stuck on after the fact is so fucking pretentious) Luke Skywalker (pre-auto-accident mold, originally in the Medal Outfit but looking much more at home in Maul's flowing black robe. Must run in the blood).

Speaking of originals, this leads us to _Star Trek : The Original Series_, whose current incarnation producers (non-fen as they are) at least managed not to fuck with the title. From whence comes : Engineer Montgomery Scott (surprisingly buff and with all his fingers, oddly enough) along with

Ambassador Sha-something, the lovely tall Andorian with the beautifully craggy face and the independently rotating antennae. (Who needs a name with pecs like that?)

Along with (gasp! Swoon! Ohmigoshalmighty!) original characters : Garnet Sue (kinda like Mary Sue in that she has green eyes and blonde hair like I used to have and I whacked it all off so she looks more like Lori Petty than anything Barbie ever dreamed up, and she came all dressed in red, so since she's representing me in this merry mix of madness I can name her after my birthstone instead of the high Goddess of the Catholic Church) and

Red (who started life as a Christmas Barbie and was quickly and ruthlessly corrupted into somebody you would never bring home to meet Mom for the holidays. Unless your Mom is like mine was, and is totally cool with alternate lifestyle choices).

Well. I think that's everyone. Oh, you were expecting a story? Guess I should stop playing with my dolls and get my butt in gear, then, eh?

** PARTY IN THE PLAYROOM **

She never knew quite what would happen when the magic took effect. It was a combination of blood and iron, velvet and leather, pleasure and pain. She smiled, passed a hand through the jagged hair the color of liquid sunshine that spilled into her bright green eyes, and fluffed her full forest green skirt around her ankles.

It was autumn in the playroom and the doors to the universes were open. Anyone who wanted to come to play was welcome.

Sinking onto the plush black upholstery of the couch, ignoring the eye-twisting planets in lime, bubble-gum pink and bright purple painted on the fabric, she nodded to the veiled woman behind the curtain and smiled. Let the games begin!

 

The first guests to appear were an unlikely looking trio. Two humans, one in his mid- twenties, the second twenty years older (but deliciously fit with it), and a non-Human of a most intriguing kind. Even more intriguing was their clothing.

The tallest of the three had flowing silver-brown hair, blue eyes clear as an August sky, hands that gave promise of proportional attributes, and looked like he'd just stepped from the deck of a pirate's ship - his own, given the wealth of lace and gold adorning his blue doublet and fine lawn shirt. His scarlet trousers showed off his long, long legs, and as he sat on the edge of the mammoth bed that filled the far corner of the playroom and pulled off his boots, the size of his feet echoed the promise of his hands.

At his side was surely his second in command, with a ruby-red doublet echoing his master's trousers, set off with even finer gold thread and more voluminous lace at his neck and wrists. His tight black trousers showed off a pair of legs even finer than the older man's. His russet hair was sheared close to the skull, but for a small tail at the back and a longer plait edging down his chest from behind his right ear. His master tugged on the end of the plait and pulled the young man down to sit beside him. Hand in hand with the third member of the party, the lad did so, pulling the alien along with him.

The third man was impressive, not merely for his coal-black skin or his wildly patterned crimson and black face, echoing the red in his companions' garb. His hairless head was ringed with horns that gleamed like gilded ivory in the low light, and he was outfitted in gold fabric that stretched tautly across his muscled shoulders, leaving his chest and arms bare. The costume was bisected by a wide black belt, and the lower portion was an extremely short pair of shorts that barely covered his assets (redefining 'hotpants'). He had no boots to remove, being barefoot.

All three smiled and waved at the blonde woman taking her ease across from them in the basement room, but none interrupted their play for idle talk. There was pleasure to be had, and only one spare night to take it. They didn't hesitate.

Obi Wan took the lead, as was his wont in times of erotic compulsion. He kissed his Master fiercely, diving into that lush mouth, moaning as the short beard abraded his lips and chin. One hand urged Qui Gon up, back against the wrought iron headboard, then skimmed immediately down to the crotch of the scarlet trousers. With a move that bespoke both practice and urgency, he slid his hand into the opening of the trousers and freed an erection that more than fulfilled the promise of the size of his Master's paws. He dropped a single, teasing kiss on the end, stabbing into the slit with the tip of his tongue, then drew back.

Qui Gon moaned. Obi Wan grinned. The moan mutated into a muttered, "oh, shit, I'm in for it now." Then the older man reached out with his right hand to grasp the headboard, his left to clench around a handy pipe running up the side of the wall, and did his damnedest to remember to breathe.

It became increasingly difficult.

Obi Wan turned to Maul and repeated the kiss he'd given Qui Gon, with a little less tongue and a lot more teeth. Maul appreciated the difference. The flesh around his horns started to swell as blood rushed to his head.

Both sets of horns.

Both heads.

Obi Wan pushed him supine onto the bed, aiming the fall precisely.

Qui Gon moaned again. Maul had landed with his head between Qui Gon's thighs, the very tips of his horns spearing into the tender flesh behind his ball sac. It should have hurt. Well, it did (In a very good way).

Maul liked the sensation of hot, slick flesh on the crown of his head, liked the pressure on his tender horns. He pressed back and up.

The moan turned to a scream (not in a bad way).

Obi Wan murmured encouragement as he reached beneath the wide black belt and freed Maul's erection. It was impressively unique in much the same way as the Sith. Obi Wan licked a trail up the coal-black shaft, fingers edging around the crimson-tattooed balls. He paused at the flared head, tattooed to match Maul's face and testicles (a story for another day). Baring his teeth, Obi Wan ran the edges of his teeth around the quartet of stained ivory horns protruding from the tattooed head of Maul's cock, before snapping his jaw shut around the gold ring piercing it horizontally along the joint of head and shaft. Obi Wan's tongue flicked out and tapped the gold ball on the ring, sending it from side to side, while tugging not particularly gently with his teeth.

Maul growled.

Arched up into Obi Wan's mouth.

Pushed back against Qui Gon's perineum.

All three men moaned.

Not from pity, but from a need to torment his bedmates further, Obi Wan drew back. Going up onto his knees, he reached down with one hand and freed his own erection, tugging at the silver ring piercing the head vertically, running into the pee slit and circling around to the base of the glans. Fingering the silver ball matching Maul's gold bauble, he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"Oooooh, fuck," Maul groaned.

"Not ... quite ... yet," Qui Gon managed to pant out, knuckles turning white from the strength of his grip on the railings.

"You know you love it," Obi Wan whispered huskily. Keeping his eyes locked on Maul's sparkling yellow (dazed, glazed and really glowing by this point) gaze, Obi Wan began thrusting the end of his cock along Maul's knee and thigh. At precisely the same time and with precisely the same rhythm, he began brushing the very end of his Padawan braid over and over Maul's testicles.

Maul's growl rose an octave and his head began to move back and forth in the same rhythm as Obi Wan's thrusts/brushing combination.

Qui Gon's groan shivered a good octave and a half up the scale before breaking off into an inarticulate screech. His thighs spread wider of their own accord, and he began to ride his cock along the top of Maul's skull in counter-rhythm to the horns digging into the tender skin behind his balls.

Obi Wan's hands slid up the cool sheets and clamped down on Maul's. Maul, in turn, grasped Obi Wan's hands convulsively. Qui Gon's hands tightened until his fingers cramped. The rhythm undulated from Obi Wan through Maul to Qui Gon and back, over and over and over, getting stronger, faster, harder as it went.

Qui Gon lost control first, as the pleasure and pain from the horns goring him deeper and deeper in his most tender flesh tore a scream from his throat along with his climax from his body. The sudden heat and wash of fluid across his horns, dripping over his forehead to spurt rivulets along his face, sent a jolt through Maul. Obi Wan took advantage of the spike in adrenaline to reach down, grab the ring through Maul's cock and pull. Hard.

Maul screamed and came, bucking like a thing possessed. Obi Wan reared back, preventing his chin from being impaled on the steaming hot horns ringing the head of Maul's cock, never losing hold of the ring. The added pull redirected Maul's climax, and he shot full in Obi Wan's face, his thick amber fluid painting the flushed flesh in abstract designs that flowed along Obi Wan's throat, down onto his chest, and up into his hair.

Obi Wan licked his lips, grunted "honey," and thrust hard against Maul's thigh. His own piercing slammed mercilessly into Maul's knee bone with each forward thrust, and the wild shaking of the bed along with the pure eroticism of his bedmates' orgasms tipped him over the edge. He shot directly up between Maul's legs, bathing the tattooed balls in white liquid, adding his own designs to those already painstakingly engraved there.

Slowly, six hands uncurled. Qui Gon gently massaged the horns and scalp still pressed against his tender cock. Maul raised one hand to knead the tip of Qui Gon's cock, lowered the other to rub his spendings into Obi Wan's skin. Obi Wan licked his lips and Maul's fingers, reaching up with one hand to return the favor by rubbing Qui Gon's fluid into Maul's flesh. His other hand played gently with the gold ball on Maul's piercing. Other than the sound of flesh on flesh (and the heavy panting), the bed was quiet.

So much for round one.

 

Amidala was ready to spit, if it hadn't been beneath her majestic dignity. She'd followed Mace Windu from the palace to a nondescript door stuck in a numberless building decorated with peeling blue paint in the middle of nowhere along the docks. He had ducked his head and fumbled with something at his waist. She'd seen a flash of silver, assumed he was bribing the door guard, and reached for her own belt. Then he'd ducked his shiny bald head and disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.

Confident in her beauty, her regal bearing, and the fact that no one had ever said no to her in her life (not to mention her truly frightening wig and ghastly make-up job), she sailed to the door and knocked demandingly.

It opened a crack.

Closed with a bang.

Even through the solid wood, she could hear someone convulsing with laughter.

The eyeballs on her hem began to glow. Dangerously.

"Open this door immediately!"

A peephole opened and a bright pink eye stared out. "How old ARE you, chickie?"

"Twenty one," she lied fluidly, adding half again to the true total.

The peephole clanged shut. The laughter ratcheted up several notches. Eventually it petered out into a series of irregular giggles punctuated by deep, wheezing gasps for breath. The peephole squeaked open again.

"Come back when you can lie and make it stick," an uneven voice with a suspicious hitch managed to rasp out at her. "'Til then, stick to ten year old perverts and leave the real shit to the grown-ups!"

Before she could bellow indignantly (if regally), the peephole clanged shut again. She nearly bit her lip in frustration, only past memories of how truly bad the white face paint tasted stopping her. Propping one shoulder up against the door, she stood and thought. And thought. And thought.

 

Mace Windu stared around the floor of the playroom. Pickings were sparse. It was still early. He leaned against the tall counter, casually opening his floor-length Jedi robe to reveal the white boxers (and nothing else) under them. Equally casually , he lifted his half erect cock through the slit in his boxers, playing idly with the steel ring bisecting the head, running the steel ball back and forth from the opening in his cock to the base of his glans, then back again.

Groans and rustling brought his head up, and he stared over at a huge cherrywood and iron bed in the far corner of the room. Three men who'd looked vaguely familiar (it was really hard to see in the half-light of the basement playroom) had been shagged out in a pile earlier when he'd first made his grand entrance. Now it looked like they were getting ready to get tired out all over again. Their attention was firmly on one another - none of them had a clue he was there. As they began to squirm over one another, he was suddenly thankful for his semi-hidden position.

It was Qui Gon. Currently sucking his Padawan's cock. Who was stretched out over the top of his Master, and spreading his thighs for, of all things, a being who looked like a Sith! With horns, and scary yellow eyes, and frightening tattoos ...

... and an incredible body ...

... and a ... tattooed ... penis ... with horns ...

... which he was slathering with gel, preparatory to stuffing it up Obi Wan Kenobi's ass.

Mace flinched, but his cock found the whole set-up extremely interesting. The Sith bent down, licking and biting at Kenobi's ass, then stretching it with his entire fist. Kenobi was moaning and writhing and making no effort at all to escape. Qui Gon was gobbling him up from the front, so he probably wouldn't have been able to move if he'd tried.

From the look on his face as Maul started working that horned monster into him, escape was the very last thing on his mind.

Unsure whether to run in and rescue Kenobi, run over and join them, or stay there and hide, Mace stood, irresolute, one hand rapidly fisting his own impressive erection. Before he could make up his mind (more difficult than one might suppose given that every drop of blood in his body was currently being squeezed by his fist), a black-robed figure glided to a halt in front of him, falling gracefully to kneel at his feet.

"Sith!" he yelped quietly, not knowing even as he said it if it was a curse or a greeting.

"Not quite," came a breathless voice, as the hood was swept back and a golden-haired, blue eyed boy with a man's hands grinned up at him. "Need a little help with that?"

Mace stared down at his erection, now pointing directly at the stranger's face, and grinned back at the boy. "Go for it."

Luke did. One hand rested on Mace's thigh, balancing him - the other clutched the waistband of his boxers, steadying them both. With a deep breath, Luke leaned forward, kissed the swollen flesh where the ring disappeared into the glans, and swallowed the whole thing in one dive.

Mace nearly fainted.

Kenobi screamed (not in a bad way, of course) and Mace's head jerked up. Perhaps it was the movement of the universe; perhaps it was karma; perhaps it was just the woman behind the curtain. Whatever the cause, Maul was fucking Kenobi who was fucking Qui Gon's face who was fisting his own cock at exactly the same pace Luke was sucking Mace.

He stood there in a trance, feeling the flow through the Force, fucking and sucking and fucked and sucked all at the same time.

God, he loved these parties.

 

"She's this way, Padawan!" Qui Gon Jinn, knight errant for Queen Amidala whether he chose to be or not (blast the great god Lucas, after all), urged his apprentice to move faster. Obi Wan Kenobi, juggling two bottles of, er, appropriated ale and spirits, hurried as fast as he could without spilling his booty. Couldn't get sticky stains all over his Jedi uniform, after all. That would be unseemly.

That righteous thought went all to hell as he ran full tilt into his mentor's back. Cursing fluently if silently, he jerked the bottles upright just in time to avoid giving them both a bath. Attention now firmly on Qui Gon, who was standing stock still in the middle of the path, he asked crossly (although very quietly), "What?!"

A muffled, inarticulate mumble was his only answer.

Sighing to himself, wondering what kind of start his beloved (if easily distracted) Master was off on this time, he peered around the bulk of brown robe and stared. Yeah, there was Amidala, all dressed up like some sort of blood-drenched peacock, leaning up against the wall like the last hooker on Sunday morning waiting for a taker.

Of course, with that wig, she'd stand there forever.

Finally, Qui Gon managed to clear the blockage in his throat (could've been a laugh; could've been a scream) and hiss a phrase at Obi Wan. At first the Padawan took it for an invitation and was quite happy to oblige, regardless of their assigned duty. Then he realized that _Amidala_ was the one Qui Gon meant when he hissed "Sex club!!!"

Nah. No way. She was just a kid, attitude aside. "Surely they won't let her in?" he asked (still quietly - it was the middle of the night, after all).

"We must guard and see that they don't," Qui Gon answered firmly.

Well, fuck. There went Obi Wan's plans. Staring down at the bottles in his hands, then up at his Master, then over at a bench (in sickly purple and green) gracing the curb not far from the entrance to the club, he asked, hopefully, "Cuddle?"

Qui Gon looked over at the bench, then back at the wide blue eyes staring up at him, then down at the bottles of Romulan ale and Denebrian whiskey Obi Wan had, er, liberated from a couple of losers in gold velour shirts and dorky haircuts several streets back. Knowing how damned pig-headed Amidala could be, and unwilling to spend the whole night standing when he could be sitting with a lapful of warm Padawan, he nodded to the bench.

"yessssssssss!" Obi Wan punched the air and cheered (very, very quietly). Four seconds later they were ensconced on the bench, hand in hand, ostensibly watching the Queen, slugging back ale and brandy, sneaking kisses and wishing like hell the lady behind the curtain had been willing to let them get naked and sweaty.

Ah, well. Someone had to watch over the Queen.

Damnit.

 

Xena shook her head - hard - but it didn't do any good. Staring down at the odd, ventilated, white slinky oversized shirt with the strange blue striping and stylized hornet on it (not being a basketball fan, she didn't truly appreciate the honor of schlepping around in a Charlotte jersey), she admired the length of her legs going down into her fringed leather boots. Oh well. If she had to wear a costume to get into the party, at least it was one that showed off her assets.

Given the orgy she found going on when she breezed past the door guard, this was a **good** thing.

The three on the bed were too far involved for her to join them, no matter how inviting they looked. She made a mental note to tell Ares to look up the kid with the braid - anybody who would voluntarily sit on that monster cock, with **horns** no less, was definitely the kind of playmate the God of War would love. And much as she despised Ares, it never hurt to toss a few favors his way when she found 'em.

She refused to even think the word 'pandering.' She preferred 're-direction.'

Her eyes lingered on the tall Nubian with the Celt kneeling at his feet. They were lovely, all light and dark together, sweat shining on their skin. They also really weren't her type. She smiled over at her hostess for the evening, tempted, for a moment, to see what was under that cavernous skirt. Two steps toward the blonde, she stopped. She simply wasn't in the mood for anything that would remind her of Gabrielle. This was a night to be wild.

Different.

A skinny woman, taller than Gabby, not nearly the muscle definition to her, more hair than anything else, all flame red and bright green eyes to set it off, stepped toward her from the shadows. Xena's lip drew up. She could break her like a twig. Before she had the chance, the woman (moving much faster than Xena would have suspected) rushed her. Slender hands that were much stronger than she would have expected caught her behind the knees, dumping her on her back on a narrow bed to the side of the Nubian currently being sucked off by the Celt.

The Nubian didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the bigger bed to the other side of them.

Xena reacted instinctively, her thighs clamping together on either side of the stranger's head, her hands burying themselves in the thick mane of red hair. The stranger didn't pause, rooting deeply with her chin between Xena's thighs, burrowing **into** the hold instead of trying to escape it. Xena opened her mouth to ask the bitch what the HELL she thought she was doing.

Teeth and tongue wormed directly to her clit, swept past it into her cunt, and licked with the enthusiasm of the recent convert and the skill of a seasoned whore. The only thing that left Xena's mouth was her breath, along with a very, very faint chant of "yeah, yeah, yeah, GOD, yeah."

The redhead took that as encouragement. One hand slid up into the fall of jet black hair spreading over the bedcover as Xena's head pounded back against the pillow. The other slid down to cup her butt, angling her up to get a better angle. Lips and tongue worked in tandem to drive Xena completely and quickly out of her mind.

Unseen by anyone actively involved in sexual activity, a young female Jedi came slowly down the stairs. Her unbound cornsilk hair flowed past her knees, barely kept off her face by the emerald headband she wore. Unlike her male counterparts, she wore golden sandals, laced to the knee, along with her standard Jedi short robes and heavy leather belt. She paused at the bed, staring into Xena's face, the clenched-shut eyes and wide open, panting mouth. Her own mouth worked for a moment, then she relaxed.

It was a night for experimentation, after all. Tomorrow would be soon enough to have it out with her lover for leaving her behind. And she had just the crop (riding, that is) to do it with, too.

Smiling ferally at the thought, eyes sparkling with anticipation of the outcome on the morrow, Gabrielle put thoughts of love (in the Xenaverse) from her mind and looked around. All attention (other than the women on the narrow bed) seemed to be centered on a trio of men (or man-like creatures) on a huge bed at the furthest corner of the room. Gabby strode over to the side for a better look.

SITH!

Even in her own mind, she wasn't sure if that was a curse or an adjective. It sure as hell looked like Master Jinn, laying there bucking up against what looked a lot like, well, a Sith. And that certainly looked like Padawan Kenobi, crouched over said Sith, ass in the tattooed face, getting what looked to be a painfully inflamed hole thoroughly tongue-bathed, while simultaneously gobbling up a cock that resembled nothing so much as a spiked cudgel.

She grinned.

This looked like fun.

Perching on the side of the bed, she ran her hand along Jinn's inseam, edging toward that rapidly moving, wet, red cock.

Lots of fun.

She'd go back to reality later.

 

The Ambassador was bored.

Soon he'd be on his way to Babel, off to negotiate a treaty, mediate among warring factions, bring peace to troubled planets, blah blah blah. It was enough to make his antennae itch. He'd been doing this waaaaaay too long. Something had to break soon, or he'd fall on the Orion equivalent of his sword and just put an end to it all. But before he shipped out on Yet Another Boring Assignment, he was off to find a night of fun. Changing from his standard furry blue and black with painted overskin to a much more risqué, thigh-skimming, shoulder-baring tawny animal pelt, he set out to explore his options.

The concierge at the dive where his embassy had lodged him had noticed right away that he was a man of taste and elegance. A man who deserved the highest entertainment possible in the wasteland surrounding him. A man who was (1) horny, (2) bored, and (3) old enough to know better and too stupid to do it. So of **course** he sent the Orion off to the one place where he didn't stand the chance of a snowball in hell of getting in.

He sashayed up to the door, ignoring the minions lurking in the shadows outside it. He rapped, once, imperiously (he was, after all, a Very Important Alien). The peephole opened.

Slammed shut.

From the other side of the door, he heard howls of laughter.

He frowned.

"You, too, huh?"

A feminine monotone reached out to him from the darkness. He turned, staring at the short, slender figure in dragon red stepping out from the shadows toward him. Her face was porcelain white, save for stunning dots on her cheeks and a single crimson square on her lower lip. Brown eyes much too young for such severe maquillage stared up at him from a sweet face surrounded by the most ridiculous horse-hair roll he'd ever seen (having been serving on an asteroid when Princess Cinnamon Bun Head debuted twenty years before).

He was instantly, irrevocably in love.

Sweeping her up in the crook of his arm, he purred lasciviously, "Wanna party, baby?"

Amidala stared at him for two full seconds, then grinned up at him and intoned (with due solemnity), "Hell, yeah. Lead on."

In the shadows, on the bench, twisted into a full-tilt lip-lock with octopus-arms, neither of her Jedi guardsmen noticed a damned thing.

Back on the Enterprise, Kirk was in for the shock of his life. (This alien babe could **shoot**).

 

Xanatos had been striving for vengeance for sooooooo long. Now, it was finally in his grasp. Dressed in stolen finery, the best disguise he could hope for, he lurked in the shadows, peering down through the grating into the basement below. The sword at his back was heavy, so he slid it from the loops along the back of his leather armor, but kept the chakram at his waist. It might come in handy (if he could figure out how the bloody hell to work the thing without having it boomerang back and chop his own hand off). The beads and fringe along the skirt felt strangely erotic brushing along his knees, and his nipples tingled underneath the breast plate.

Well, Xena hadn't been using it. Why not? It fit, after all.

Staring back down through the grate, he gritted his teeth. Qui Gon had never made those animal grunting noises when _Xanatos_ was going down on him. And he certainly hadn't sucked Xanatos with nearly the enthusiasm he was showing for that tattooed freak (didn't those horns **hurt**?). Not to mention the needy way he grabbed hold of that bastard Kenobi's little Knight tail.

Both of them.

Maybe if Qui Gon had shown that sort of enthusiasm those times Xanatos had tripped him and beaten him to the floor, Xanatos wouldn't have been seduced by the Dark Side of the Force. Although, come to think on it, the Dark Side (personified by our friend, Sid) wasn't all that keen on his technique either. Maybe ... maybe it really was supposed to last longer than eight minutes (personal best)?

Nah. Couldn't be that.

Shrugging the thought aside as unworthy on a night given over to vengeance, Xanatos edged his way through the back grating, extremely careful not to smudge or (gasp!) tear Xena's gear. One thing he **didn't** need was for the Warrior Princess to find out her clothes had been borrowed by a cross-dressing spiky haired double jointed wanker of a fallen Jedi - who'd then gotten them dirty. Successfully navigating the pitfalls of entrance to the basement playroom, Xanatos skulked across the floor toward his target.

No one noticed.

He stopped, in the middle of the floor, and looked around. Xena was keening away like a banshee, knees up to her shoulders, head tossed back in wild abandon, as a chick with hair like Pippi Longstocking after an explosion went to town between her thighs. Master Mace Windu was staring like a zombie at the big bed where Qui Gon, Kenobi, and the horned-headed freak were going at one another, not paying much attention to the buff blond guy going down on him (which had to be sheer fascination with the orgy - Luke was damned good at giving head. Just ask Han. No, wait, that's another story, too!). Nothing short of a neuron bomb would break the momentum on the bed, which had transformed from a trio to a quartet during his careful ingress and now boasted members of both genders.

Nobody was paying a damned bit of attention to the audience.

Sighing, sad but resigned, Xanatos perched on the end of the narrow bed, avoiding the redhead's legs and trying not to get kicked in the head by Xena during one of her wilder convulsions of pleasure. As he watched Qui Gon holding Gabrielle's hair back as she sucked him, and Kenobi fucking her from behind as Maul once again stuffed that horned pole up him (god, but that **had** to hurt. Not in a bad way ... okay, maybe in a bad way, but in a good bad way), Xanatos resorted to his usual panacea in the face of massive sexual frustration.

One hand braced against the end of the bed to keep himself from falling off in the enthusiasm of the moment (that was embarrassing, he knew from prior experience), the other dove under his skirt and wrapped around his cock. Spreading his legs, he settled down into a rhythm, completely forgetting as he spurted two minutes later that he was signing his death warrant.

That is, if DNA typing was known in the Xenaverse, and they could figure out whose spunk was all over Xena's leather. Given the canonical evidence, anything was possible.

 

The ale was potent, and he wasn't sure when he'd left the tavern and his friends, Sulu and young Chekov, behind. Romulan ale would do that to a man, even one as used to strong spirits as a Scot was by nature (from birth). Montgomery Scott, Scotty to his friends, stared around the dimly lit room full to the brim with screaming, sweating, rutting men and women, then back to the drink in his hand. When he lifted his head, he was startled to see a slender young woman with ancient, merry eyes staring at him. One slim hand lifted, beckoning him forward.

He lifted his glass in salute. Staggered over to where she sat. Wasted a single gut-wrenching moment trying to figure out if the planets on the truly appalling sofa were actually spinning, then turned his back on them, lowered his butt onto the cushions, and slung his arm around the blonde.

Wherever the lads were, they could just stay there. He had himself an armful of heaven, and he was going nowhere fast.

THE END


End file.
